I kind of hate when books or movies have a character (usually some sheltered teenage girl who’s never bothered to make her own decisions in life) that does something stupid – you know, like jump out of a plane or kiss a stranger – and says “I’ve never been so alive” in a breathy exhale. Well, what the fuck were you before now? Have you been in a coma for twenty years? Did you just miraculously get cured from a zombie apocalypse? This is a fact: you are alive. You are alive and you will always be as alive as you are right now. Then one day, you won’t be. As crazy or wild or fun as some experiences may be, they are just moments in one (hopefully) long life, not a singular climax in a drab encyclopedia of ordinary moments. The universe formed, and species evolved, and your parents met, and DNA combined, all to result in you being here in this life. Those moments all mattered, so why shouldn’t all of yours?
It’s so easy to think about the bad things in life. When you’re standing in the rain and you’ve forgotten your presentation at home and there’s no way you can afford to take your mother out for her birthday this week, it’s hard to think about anything good. It’s a lot like trust. You trust someone because of all the times they stood by you, but one little screw up and you can’t imagine ever trusting them again. Joy is taken for granted, then one day the sadness comes and it’s like you’ll never know happiness, or laughter, or love ever again.
It’s a cruel reality, isn’t it? Why can I remember standing beside my grandmother’s open grave but not what it felt like to hug her? Why can I recall with perfect clarity the fear in my best friend’s voice when her parents were in a car crash, but not what it sounded like the first time I made her laugh? I don’t know the answer. I wish I did, as there are so many things I have lost to time and fear.
What I do know though, is that happiness will come again. I will see my best friend and the rain will leave and one day I will take my mom to the best restaurant in town and tell her “thank you.”Because this has shown me what I take for granted, and now I know to bring my umbrella.
I hate people. Yes, I hate people so much that I’m writing on a platform explicitly made to reach the billions of people across this international bridge called the internet. What a sad form of communication. If I could somehow be published in a newspaper or magazine, at least I would feel like people of real substance would read it. Not to insinuate that you have no substance, but you saw the title and decided to read anyway, so how offended can you really be?
See, I’m writing this on the ass-backwards communicative form that is a blog because – as I’ve already mentioned – I DON’T LIKE PEOPLE. So obviously I’m not going to say it out loud. Not necessarily because I don’t want to offend, but because it would mean interaction with another person and I simply don’t want to do that. I’m what scientists call an asshole. Oh, sorry – I meant introvert. Again, not to make any assumptions that all introverts are assholes, I just happen to be one. Think correlation, not causation.
It’s a problem, because I say “I don’t like people” and said people think, “Oh she’s one of those lovable, sarcastic people that provide witty comments and dry remarks. Let’s bug her until she reluctantly takes us into her heart.” That’s fine and dandy, maybe a lot of introverts are like that. I’m not. Excess affection and pressing yourself into my life is NOT the way to make me like you. I have numerous failed relationships (romantic and friendly) that show the more I have to be around you, the less I enjoy your company.
Don’t get me wrong, I may be an asshole and an introvert, but I’m not heartless. I have friends, and I love them. Sometimes I want someone around to laugh at my witty comments. I just need people to understand that most of the time, I will wholeheartedly choose being alone. Please don’t wonder if there is something wrong with me. I have my share of mental insecurities and issues, but for the most part, I am a healthy and happy functioning member of society. I just wish that society would shut up every now and then. No matter how much you tell me “You just need to get out more” or “You just haven’t met the right guy” or “Amelia, you haven’t left the house in a week. At least shower.” I will not change, nor should I (except maybe to bathe).
Here’s the thing, the main point, the crux of the problem: I want to be alone, not lonely. I could never discourage anyone from being my friend. My deep, dark, secret truth is that I love people. I love making them laugh, I love hearing their stories, I love making them happy. But the love I can give – as well as the love I can take – spreads me thin. I need you to know that I need to recover. I need to build up myself before I can help support you. Often, that means being alone, maybe with a cup of coffee and a good book. Maybe a little Teen Wolf if I’m feeling especially tween-emotional that day. If you let me give you what love I have, on my conditions, I promise I’ll give it all. But I need you to love me for what I am: an asshole. Oh, wait – I meant introvert.